FIC: A Cup of Tea with Sugar, John/Sherlock
Title: A Cup of Tea with Sugar
Author: likeaglass
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: basically, it's incipient!mustache!porn
Notes: Written for caersmane, who wrote this amazing fic, which I read and was like, yeah, BUT WHERE'S THE PORN. To which she said, I don't write porn. To which I said, ...can I write it? (To which she replied, DO YOU KNOW ME, which I took to mean, yes please.)
A man without a mustache is like a cup of tea without sugar
~ English Proverb
John’s mouth is hot and pliant under his, the faint hint of menthol from his shaving foam tingling against Sherlock’s lips. The kiss is sweet, soft, nothing like Sherlock imagined. But then, John is nothing like Sherlock imagined.
Sherlock can feel the hot press of John’s naked erection against his clothed thigh, but he ignores it in favor of exploring the way John’s mouth molds seamlessly to his, the way John’s tongue curls, hot and wet, against his own. Sherlock bites John’s lower lip, thoughtfully, testing its softness with his teeth. John moans into his mouth, pushing his hips back against Sherlock’s.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John says against Sherlock’s mouth, fingers moving from the nape of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair. John rips his mouth away to breathe damply into the skin of Sherlock’s throat. “Didn’t think you…” he trails off, then licks a long line along Sherlock’s collarbone. He sucks at the place where neck meets shoulder for a moment, and Sherlock is shocked at how good it feels, at the wave of pure want that floods through him at the sensation. “Gonna make you feel so good,” John says, and Sherlock doesn’t doubt it for an instant.
“John,” Sherlock says, his voice shamefully hoarse. John sucks harder at his collarbone, no doubt leaving a mark. The thought is oddly pleasing, and Sherlock imagines for a moment what Lestrade, what Donovan will say when they next meet. The thought makes him smile humourlessly. “John, please,” Sherlock says. The please tastes strange in his mouth; Sherlock’s unaccustomed to asking for what he wants, just as he is unaccustomed to actually receiving it.
But he has John, warm and supple and still-damp from the shower under his hands. Sherlock smooths his palms over John’s shoulders, down the planes of his chest to his stomach. The dichotomy of soft skin and hard muscle pleases him, and he spends several happy minutes stroking John’s abdominals, John’s soft breath at his clavicle turning harsh and desperate.
“God, Sherlock, please,” John pants, mouthing the words at Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock takes pity on him, moving his fingers further down to take John’s erection in hand. John is hot and silky beneath his fingers, a pleasure all its own.
“Oh,” John says, pulling his mouth away from its happy home at Sherlock’s neck. “Have to get you naked, God, Sherlock.” His fingers scrabble desperately at the fastenings of Sherlock’s trousers, managing after endless seconds to get them undone. He worms his fingers through the slit in the fabric, only pausing briefly when his fingers meet skin instead of pants. “Oh God,” he says, “you don’t wear underwear?”
Sherlock shakes his head, and John groans, a desperate sound. “I’m never going to be able to work with you again without thinking about this,” John says, and he sounds rueful rather than accusatory.
“I want you to think of this all the time,” Sherlock admits, voice low. John groans and surges forward into Sherlock’s hand, his cock leaking precome onto Sherlock’s fingers.
“Christ,” John says, his hips moving restlessly against Sherlock’s. His mouth finds Sherlock’s again, and they kiss for long moments, sharing breath. John’s fingers work at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and when it’s finally undone Sherlock shrugs out of it, his mind blanking at the simple feel of John’s skin against his own. Sherlock has never known pleasure like this, this intense, mindless, animal pleasure, and he thrusts against John, gasping against his mouth.
“Shhhh,” John says, pulling back from the kiss. His hands smooth down the planes of Sherlock’s back. “Shhh, I’ve got you, Sherlock, I’ve got you.” His voice is steadier than it has been, and distantly Sherlock is contemplating why, how, what…? But John’s mouth on his own silences the overactive discourse in Sherlock’s brain with one swipe of his tongue.
Sherlock moves beneath John’s hand, wanting more contact, more everything, more of John, but he can’t say it. John seems to understand, though - he always seems to understand - and his hand moves from Sherlock’s back to his cock, smoothing over the aching flesh. “Is this what you want?” John asks, lips mouthing at Sherlock’s cheekbone. “You want my hand?” Sherlock can only nod, helplessly, as his hips move without his control into John’s fist.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he says again. Sherlock moans involuntarily, shoving his cock into John’s hand, unable to stop himself.
John laughs, breathlessly, but before Sherlock can protest John’s taken his lips with his own again, and Sherlock stops thinking.
Sherlock groans into John’s mouth, needy, and then it’s John who’s in complete control, John with his steady hands and his solid body. John kisses a trail from Sherlock’s mouth to his chest, stopping to mouth a nipple before sliding gracefully to his knees in front of Sherlock. It’s a picture Sherlock’s imagined many times, but nothing can do justice to the sweet thrill that runs up Sherlock’s spine when John looks up at him, trustingly.
“I’ve got you,” John says, mouthing the words at Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock’s knees go a bit unsteady. John catches him, of course; John’s always there to catch him. John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips and shifts them so Sherlock’s back is against the cool tile next to the sink, John kneeling provocatively in front of him, and Sherlock takes in a quick breath at the sight.
John’s eyes are dark and intense, and he doesn’t break eye contact with Sherlock for a moment as he leans forward, taking Sherlock into his mouth. Sherlock surges forward, the silky wet warmth of John’s mouth overpowering his senses. Sherlock gasps, his head falling back sharply against the tile, and John hums contentedly around him.
John’s name falls like a mantra from Sherlock’s lips, the only prayer Sherlock knows. John’s sweet, sinful mouth swallows around Sherlock’s cock, his lips sliding all the way down to the root before easing off, slowly. Sherlock wonders, dimly, where John learned this craft, but it doesn’t matter, not when John is swallowing around his shaft, tongue licking at the underside of Sherlock’s cock. The feel of it is enough to drive Sherlock mad, his mind wiped blissfully clean of everything except John, John in front of him, John on his knees, John surrounding him with slick wet heat.
Sherlock thrusts into John’s mouth, primal and unthinking, and it’s not long - not nearly long enough - before he’s coming down John’s throat, hot, steady pulses of pleasure that John accepts greedily.
When finally Sherlock’s spent, he sags against the wall, eyes closed and breath coming in short gasps. John mouths at his balls, kisses his spent cock before climbing gracefully to his feet.
“All right?” John asks, kissing Sherlock’s cheek, chaste.
Sherlock opens his eyes, instinctively searching out John’s gaze. John’s eyes are bright, almost feverish, his still-hard cock brushing tantalizingly over Sherlock’s still-clothed thigh. “I…” Sherlock manages, before needing to swallow against the dryness in his throat. “I’ve never been better,” he says, and John smiles, that same secret smile that’s all Sherlock’s, the one that started this whole thing. Sherlock can’t help but lean forward and capture it on his tongue.
John’s upper lip is slightly scratchy against his own, the stubble from his incipient mustache dragging against Sherlock’s own clean-shaven mouth, and the slight burn only heightens the sensation of John’s lips against his own. John’s mouth is irresistible, sweet and demanding by turns, and Sherlock finds himself groaning helplessly into the welcoming warmth of John’s kiss.
“I’ve wanted this for…oh, I don’t know how long,” Sherlock whispers against John’s mouth, a secret confession Sherlock knows John will keep safe.
John moans into his mouth before pulling away to pant against Sherlock’s cheekbone, overcome. “God, Sherlock, you don’t know how often I’ve thought of you,” he says, voice low and confidential, and Sherlock can’t help but take his mouth again, can’t help but take John’s cock into his hand.
John’s warm and solid in his palm, skin smooth and slick in Sherlock’s fist. Sherlock moans into John’s mouth, and if he were a younger man he would surely be getting hard again.
As it is, he’s focussed solely on John’s pleasure, on the soft moans he makes into Sherlock’s mouth, the way his hips stutter forward, shoving his cock gracelessly into Sherlock’s hand. It’s wonderful, more than Sherlock ever let himself imagine, and it isn’t long before John’s moaning almost constantly against Sherlock’s lips, his cock wet and slippery and magnificent in Sherlock’s hand. Finally, John groans out his release, coming messily over Sherlock’s fingers.
“Fuck,” John says, crass, but Sherlock doesn’t mind.
Sherlock hums, content, and kisses the side of John’s face. He’s a mess, sticky and sweaty and covered in come, but he is also the most relaxed and pleased he’s been in years.
“Okay?” John asks, pulling back a little to see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock nods, too happy for words, and brings his messy hand up to his face. He looks at his come-covered fingers, contemplatively, before sliding the first two fingers into his mouth. “Oh,” John says, eyes watching Sherlock’s fingers hungrily. “If you don’t stop that, we might have a repeat performance on our hands.”
Sherlock licks between his fingers, deliberately, catching any last taste of John from his hand. “Who says I’m against such an outcome?” he asks, and smiles.
Author: likeaglass
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: basically, it's incipient!mustache!porn
Notes: Written for caersmane, who wrote this amazing fic, which I read and was like, yeah, BUT WHERE'S THE PORN. To which she said, I don't write porn. To which I said, ...can I write it? (To which she replied, DO YOU KNOW ME, which I took to mean, yes please.)
A man without a mustache is like a cup of tea without sugar
~ English Proverb
John’s mouth is hot and pliant under his, the faint hint of menthol from his shaving foam tingling against Sherlock’s lips. The kiss is sweet, soft, nothing like Sherlock imagined. But then, John is nothing like Sherlock imagined.
Sherlock can feel the hot press of John’s naked erection against his clothed thigh, but he ignores it in favor of exploring the way John’s mouth molds seamlessly to his, the way John’s tongue curls, hot and wet, against his own. Sherlock bites John’s lower lip, thoughtfully, testing its softness with his teeth. John moans into his mouth, pushing his hips back against Sherlock’s.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John says against Sherlock’s mouth, fingers moving from the nape of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair. John rips his mouth away to breathe damply into the skin of Sherlock’s throat. “Didn’t think you…” he trails off, then licks a long line along Sherlock’s collarbone. He sucks at the place where neck meets shoulder for a moment, and Sherlock is shocked at how good it feels, at the wave of pure want that floods through him at the sensation. “Gonna make you feel so good,” John says, and Sherlock doesn’t doubt it for an instant.
“John,” Sherlock says, his voice shamefully hoarse. John sucks harder at his collarbone, no doubt leaving a mark. The thought is oddly pleasing, and Sherlock imagines for a moment what Lestrade, what Donovan will say when they next meet. The thought makes him smile humourlessly. “John, please,” Sherlock says. The please tastes strange in his mouth; Sherlock’s unaccustomed to asking for what he wants, just as he is unaccustomed to actually receiving it.
But he has John, warm and supple and still-damp from the shower under his hands. Sherlock smooths his palms over John’s shoulders, down the planes of his chest to his stomach. The dichotomy of soft skin and hard muscle pleases him, and he spends several happy minutes stroking John’s abdominals, John’s soft breath at his clavicle turning harsh and desperate.
“God, Sherlock, please,” John pants, mouthing the words at Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock takes pity on him, moving his fingers further down to take John’s erection in hand. John is hot and silky beneath his fingers, a pleasure all its own.
“Oh,” John says, pulling his mouth away from its happy home at Sherlock’s neck. “Have to get you naked, God, Sherlock.” His fingers scrabble desperately at the fastenings of Sherlock’s trousers, managing after endless seconds to get them undone. He worms his fingers through the slit in the fabric, only pausing briefly when his fingers meet skin instead of pants. “Oh God,” he says, “you don’t wear underwear?”
Sherlock shakes his head, and John groans, a desperate sound. “I’m never going to be able to work with you again without thinking about this,” John says, and he sounds rueful rather than accusatory.
“I want you to think of this all the time,” Sherlock admits, voice low. John groans and surges forward into Sherlock’s hand, his cock leaking precome onto Sherlock’s fingers.
“Christ,” John says, his hips moving restlessly against Sherlock’s. His mouth finds Sherlock’s again, and they kiss for long moments, sharing breath. John’s fingers work at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and when it’s finally undone Sherlock shrugs out of it, his mind blanking at the simple feel of John’s skin against his own. Sherlock has never known pleasure like this, this intense, mindless, animal pleasure, and he thrusts against John, gasping against his mouth.
“Shhhh,” John says, pulling back from the kiss. His hands smooth down the planes of Sherlock’s back. “Shhh, I’ve got you, Sherlock, I’ve got you.” His voice is steadier than it has been, and distantly Sherlock is contemplating why, how, what…? But John’s mouth on his own silences the overactive discourse in Sherlock’s brain with one swipe of his tongue.
Sherlock moves beneath John’s hand, wanting more contact, more everything, more of John, but he can’t say it. John seems to understand, though - he always seems to understand - and his hand moves from Sherlock’s back to his cock, smoothing over the aching flesh. “Is this what you want?” John asks, lips mouthing at Sherlock’s cheekbone. “You want my hand?” Sherlock can only nod, helplessly, as his hips move without his control into John’s fist.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he says again. Sherlock moans involuntarily, shoving his cock into John’s hand, unable to stop himself.
John laughs, breathlessly, but before Sherlock can protest John’s taken his lips with his own again, and Sherlock stops thinking.
Sherlock groans into John’s mouth, needy, and then it’s John who’s in complete control, John with his steady hands and his solid body. John kisses a trail from Sherlock’s mouth to his chest, stopping to mouth a nipple before sliding gracefully to his knees in front of Sherlock. It’s a picture Sherlock’s imagined many times, but nothing can do justice to the sweet thrill that runs up Sherlock’s spine when John looks up at him, trustingly.
“I’ve got you,” John says, mouthing the words at Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock’s knees go a bit unsteady. John catches him, of course; John’s always there to catch him. John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips and shifts them so Sherlock’s back is against the cool tile next to the sink, John kneeling provocatively in front of him, and Sherlock takes in a quick breath at the sight.
John’s eyes are dark and intense, and he doesn’t break eye contact with Sherlock for a moment as he leans forward, taking Sherlock into his mouth. Sherlock surges forward, the silky wet warmth of John’s mouth overpowering his senses. Sherlock gasps, his head falling back sharply against the tile, and John hums contentedly around him.
John’s name falls like a mantra from Sherlock’s lips, the only prayer Sherlock knows. John’s sweet, sinful mouth swallows around Sherlock’s cock, his lips sliding all the way down to the root before easing off, slowly. Sherlock wonders, dimly, where John learned this craft, but it doesn’t matter, not when John is swallowing around his shaft, tongue licking at the underside of Sherlock’s cock. The feel of it is enough to drive Sherlock mad, his mind wiped blissfully clean of everything except John, John in front of him, John on his knees, John surrounding him with slick wet heat.
Sherlock thrusts into John’s mouth, primal and unthinking, and it’s not long - not nearly long enough - before he’s coming down John’s throat, hot, steady pulses of pleasure that John accepts greedily.
When finally Sherlock’s spent, he sags against the wall, eyes closed and breath coming in short gasps. John mouths at his balls, kisses his spent cock before climbing gracefully to his feet.
“All right?” John asks, kissing Sherlock’s cheek, chaste.
Sherlock opens his eyes, instinctively searching out John’s gaze. John’s eyes are bright, almost feverish, his still-hard cock brushing tantalizingly over Sherlock’s still-clothed thigh. “I…” Sherlock manages, before needing to swallow against the dryness in his throat. “I’ve never been better,” he says, and John smiles, that same secret smile that’s all Sherlock’s, the one that started this whole thing. Sherlock can’t help but lean forward and capture it on his tongue.
John’s upper lip is slightly scratchy against his own, the stubble from his incipient mustache dragging against Sherlock’s own clean-shaven mouth, and the slight burn only heightens the sensation of John’s lips against his own. John’s mouth is irresistible, sweet and demanding by turns, and Sherlock finds himself groaning helplessly into the welcoming warmth of John’s kiss.
“I’ve wanted this for…oh, I don’t know how long,” Sherlock whispers against John’s mouth, a secret confession Sherlock knows John will keep safe.
John moans into his mouth before pulling away to pant against Sherlock’s cheekbone, overcome. “God, Sherlock, you don’t know how often I’ve thought of you,” he says, voice low and confidential, and Sherlock can’t help but take his mouth again, can’t help but take John’s cock into his hand.
John’s warm and solid in his palm, skin smooth and slick in Sherlock’s fist. Sherlock moans into John’s mouth, and if he were a younger man he would surely be getting hard again.
As it is, he’s focussed solely on John’s pleasure, on the soft moans he makes into Sherlock’s mouth, the way his hips stutter forward, shoving his cock gracelessly into Sherlock’s hand. It’s wonderful, more than Sherlock ever let himself imagine, and it isn’t long before John’s moaning almost constantly against Sherlock’s lips, his cock wet and slippery and magnificent in Sherlock’s hand. Finally, John groans out his release, coming messily over Sherlock’s fingers.
“Fuck,” John says, crass, but Sherlock doesn’t mind.
Sherlock hums, content, and kisses the side of John’s face. He’s a mess, sticky and sweaty and covered in come, but he is also the most relaxed and pleased he’s been in years.
“Okay?” John asks, pulling back a little to see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock nods, too happy for words, and brings his messy hand up to his face. He looks at his come-covered fingers, contemplatively, before sliding the first two fingers into his mouth. “Oh,” John says, eyes watching Sherlock’s fingers hungrily. “If you don’t stop that, we might have a repeat performance on our hands.”
Sherlock licks between his fingers, deliberately, catching any last taste of John from his hand. “Who says I’m against such an outcome?” he asks, and smiles.